Letters to Johanna
by Sanctuaria
Summary: "The world used to turn when you were here. Things used to happen. Without you…everything's just stopped." A collection of letters Kate wrote to her mother, starting the day Johanna died.
1. January 9, 1999

**Just an idea I've been toying with for a while now... Some of this may be similar to what I included in my other fic called Convalescence, but this will go much more in depth and have letters from January 9, 1999 to the season six finale and perhaps beyond that. It will stay true to the show to the best of my ability, and if you see anything that's off, feel free to tell me. **

**My goal is to post one letter every week at the time when _Castle_ normally would air (U.S. west coast time). **

**Warning: To those of you who have lost loved ones, this story may be hard for you to read. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. This work is for entertainment purposes only, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

**Prologue**

"Here we are," her father said, pressing in the parking brake with one foot. Kate stared eagerly out the window at the brick building with large glass windows stretching across its entire front. She exited the passenger side still staring up at it, remembering all the various times they had come here, to this restaurant. Birthdays, graduations—it was her family's favorite.

Jim led the way inside, wading his way through the throng of people waiting and leaving an open path for her to squeeze through. "We have a reservation," he told the woman at the front.

"Name?" she asked cheerily.

"Beckett, party of three," he answered patiently.

"Yes, right this way, sir," the woman said, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of her nose. She looked to be nineteen or twenty—around Kate's own age. Kate was an honors pre-law student at Stanford University in California on Winter Break, and she wondered if this young woman was only working reception in a restaurant until school was back in session for her as well. "Your waiter will be right with you," she informed them, handing over their menus. Her dad thanked her and sat down across from Kate in a booth with plush, burgundy cushions that squeaked slightly when they moved.

"Mom's going to meet us here, right?" Kate asked as she opened her menu.

"Yeah, but why don't you give her a call?" Jim suggested. "She said she'd probably get there before us, but you know how she is when she's working on a particularly consuming case." Kate followed his instruction but only got her mom's voicemail, as if her phone was turned off. They waited for another ten minutes, telling their waitress they weren't ready yet twice before her father finally decided, "I guess we should start without her," and closed his menu. "You know what you want, Katie?"

"Yeah, Dad," she replied.

"Okay, I'll order for your mom. She should be here soon. She's been late before, but I've never known your mom to miss a family dinner."

Kate nodded her agreement. The waitress spotted them and, with the same cheery expression as the first, held out her notepad with her pen at the ready. "Ready to order? Okay, what can I get you?"

"I'll have the eight ounce ribeye with garlic mashed potatoes and home-style green beans," he requested. "We're still waiting on my wife, but she should be here soon. She'll have the small chicken pot pie."

"And I'll have the steak as well," Kate smiled.

"Okay! I'll get that to you as soon as possible," the waitress said, collecting their menus.

Two hours later, both their plates were scraped clean and Johanna still hadn't arrived. Jim checked his watch nervously. "I guess we should just take this to go," he said, indicating the untouched pot pie. He informed the waitress and she returned with a large Styrofoam container and a paper bag. Kate and Jim exited the restaurant together, and goosebumps appeared on Kate's arms as a chill wind swept through the street. She pulled her jacket just a little tighter around her body as they headed for the car.

There was just a bit of snow on the ground, just enough to create sludge and make the roads dangerous without the pretty white crystalline look. As her father drove, Kate tried her mom's cell for the fifth time that night, but there was no answer.

"She's just working," Jim repeated, as much to himself as his daughter. They arrived at the house a few minutes later. It was a white building with blue curtains on the windows and a few well-pruned shrubs outlining the small front lawn.

"That's odd," Kate commented, pointing to the police car out front. "Usually don't see those much around here."

"Katie," Jim said as a warning. She looked up to see a man standing at their door. he seemed to be waiting for them. "Can I help you?" Jim asked, approaching cautiously. Kate stayed behind him but went up the front walk as well.

"Are you Jim Beckett?" the man asked, holding up his police badge. "Detective Raglan, NYPD." If Kate had had to guess, she would've said the man looked extremely uncomfortable. Nervous wasn't quite right, but the officer was definitely troubled by something.

"Yes, I am," her father replied. "What's this regarding?"

"Perhaps this would be a conversation better suited for inside," the detective suggested.

"What's going on?" her father demanded, the courtroom lawyer part of him making an appearance. Kate's heart pounded in her chest.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but they found your wife's body earlier this afternoon in Washington Heights."

"Her…her body?" Kate's voice cracked. Her mind whirled.

Jim just stared at the detective for a moment and then unlocked the door. "You'd better come in." Her dad unlocked the door with his key, and Kate noticed his hands were shaking. Hers shook as well.

* * *

January 9, 1999

Dear Mom,

They say you're gone, but I keep expecting you to walk through that door. I think Dad does too, because he keeps turning at every noise and looking at it.

I'm sitting on your bed writing this letter to you because Dad and Detective Raglan are still talking in the living room. I had to leave; I couldn't stay in their company while the police explained the details of your death. Someday I'll want them, need them, but not right now. I keep thinking they've made a mistake, that it's not really you they've found. I keep thinking I'll see you tonight, and if not tonight, tomorrow. This feels like one of your business trips when your flight home has been delayed. If I just fall asleep, no more than a second will pass before you touch my cheek, waking me so I can welcome you home.

But if it is real, if you really are gone, then I don't know what I will do. You were always there for me, Mom, whenever I needed you. Now I need you more than ever and you're gone. You and Dad are all I know. I thought you would always be here to come back to, forever. I guess I was wrong.

I can't believe that just two weeks ago we were all staying in the cabin in the woods together, eating ham and cookies and other Christmas foods. The decorations are still up, but no one seems to care. They look lonely to me. Abandoned.

Mom, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry we didn't have more time together. I'm sorry I spent that semester in Kiev and missed your birthday and Easter and planting season last year. I'm sorry I chose a school so far away. I'm sorry I didn't make time to talk with you on the phone last weekend. I would give anything for us to have a conversation now. I'm so sorry, Mom.

Please come back. I know it's impossible, but please try. I'm not ready for you to leave me. I'm not ready to say goodbye.

Love,

Kate

* * *

**Thoughts? **

**The next letters will be completely new and not featured in Convalescence. I would love to hear your feedback!**


	2. January 10, 1999

January 10, 1999

Dear Mom,

I can't believe this is happening. I haven't come out of my room since yesterday, and Dad hasn't been inside it except to tell me that he's going to the police station—precinct, I think he called it—to ID your body and help Detective Raglan with the case. He left before I could decide whether I wanted to ask to accompany him.

I don't know if it's better this way or not. There's a lingering doubt in my mind that this is all a misunderstanding, that it's another woman they've found. Not you. Half of me is trying to cling to that doubt, while the other half is trying to quench it. I want to hold onto the hope that you're still alive, still out there somewhere, that I'll see you again, but I also feel like I'm stringing myself along. I don't know which side is winning. I'll tell you when I find out.

I feel numb. Disjointed. The world is surreal right now, like any minute I'm going to wake up and discover this is all some horrible dream. Please let it be a dream.

Please.

Love,

Kate


	3. January 15, 1999

January 15, 1999

Dear Mom,

The funeral is tomorrow, but I don't think I can go. I mean, I have to, and I will, but it feels like I can't. The pain in my heart where you used to be is unbearable. I'm afraid you didn't know how much you meant to me.

You loved me unconditionally, and that would have been enough. But you never stopped giving, and I love you so much for that. You were always there to cry or laugh with me, no matter what the occasion or what mistake I had made. You set a good example, the best example, for me to follow and I can only hope to become half the person you arewere. I have to remember to use past tense now and hope that eventually it won't hurt every time I do.

It hurts so much, Mom. It is almost more than I can bear. I just want to fall into your arms right now, hug you and never let go. The outside world keeps on moving, but at home everything is still, silent. The silence scares me.

Sometimes Dad gets up to do something, but mostly he just sits in his chair, staring at your wedding photo on the mantle. I don't remember the last time either of us have eaten or even spoken. The vacant look in his eyes is the worst, so I stay in my room. But even here, everything reminds me of you. The stuffed elephant you have me for Christmas when I was little. The picture of us skating on my desk. The birthday present I brought back from Stanford, hidden in my closet under my summer clothes. I can't do anything but sit here and cry. I don't know how I'll fare in the world tomorrow. Showering, dressing, and makeup will easily make me look presentable. But I don't feel presentable on the inside. I feel like I will shatter into a million pieces at a sudden noise or burst into flames when I step into the sun. I don't want to go out and experience the world without being able to return home and tell you about my adventures later.

Maddie's called several times now, but I can't bring myself to pick it up. She will try to cheer me up and I don't feel like being cheered up right now. I wonder if that makes me a bad friend. The problem is, I can't bring myself to care. The only person I want to talk to is you. And it hurts that I can't.

Love,

Kate


	4. January 16, 1999

January 16, 1999

Dear Mom,

The funeral was awful. I was a mess the whole time and everyone kept saying how sorry they are. Some even said they understood. But they don't. No one understands how I feel.

Except maybe Dad. He might. He loved you just as much as I did. The funeral was beautiful, and it beauty just made it worse. It was like everyone was trying to pretend that something about this is beautiful. But your death was just ugly. Father Vince presided over the ceremony and talked a lot about heaven and God, but I'm not so sure anymore. What kind of God would orchestrate something so horrible. What kind of God would take you away from me like this?

After they finished the burial, Dad said, "Let's just get out of here, Katie," and we went on the train to Coney Island and walking along the beach. Neither of us could stand being at that reception for another second, but I'm sorry we left early. I feel like we disrespected you somehow, and I can't stand the thought that I disappointed you. Dad and I made a stickman from the twine and twigs that washed up on the shore, just like we used to build sandcastles when I was younger.

Mom, I smiled. How could I be happy enough to smile? You're gone and not coming back and I _smiled_? Dad said that the stickman could be a symbol that even on the worst days there's a possibility for joy. It's sitting on my dresser now, and as I write this it feels like it's staring at me accusatorily. Just because being happy is a possibility doesn't mean it should happen.

I miss you so much. There's a hole in my heart that I know nothing else and no one else will ever be able to fill. Dad's trying the best he can, but it's not like it was before. It will never be like it was before. I wish it could be.

Home is mostly silent now. We don't really talk. Sometimes we cry, but everything that can be said already has been. Sometimes friends call, but mostly we don't pick up. Eventually they just leave a message and stop calling. Do we need anything. They're there for us. They're sorry. It's all the same now.

The world used to turn when you were here. Things used to happen. Without you…everything's just stopped. And neither Dad nor I have the energy to get it moving again. Is it even possible? Being at home without you is so painful, I feel like I'm drowning in it.

College starts again in one week. I haven't told Dad, but I've already sent in the paperwork that will allow me to transfer to NYU for the rest of this year and the next. The silence of the house is oppressive, but I can't go to school halfway across the country and leave him alone here. I won't put it off a semester either—I need something to concentrate on besides this, something to distract me from the awfulness of it all.

Don't think that I'm trying to put you out of my mind, Mom. Never. I love you.

Love,

Kate


	5. January 24, 1999

January 24, 1999

Dear Mom,

School starts tomorrow. And honestly, it scares me. I'm worried that as soon as I walk through those gates, everyone will see right through me. Everyone will see how broken I am, because I'm not sure I can hide it. I haven't had to until now.

I remember when you and Dad dropped me off at my first day of preschool. I remember how you braided my hair into two short pigtails, gave me a Sesame Street backpack, and sent me off to play with the other children. I remember coming back to you uncertainly and asking when you would be coming back. Dad laughed and told me I'd see you two again before I knew it, and to go have fun. And I did.

Tomorrow I'll be braiding my own hair. One braid, not two, French like you taught me. And all of this will be weighing me down instead of a backpack.

When I told Dad I was going to NYU, he didn't seem to mind my leaving Stanford. I was waiting for him to say he'd drive me there on my first day, but he didn't say it. He drove me to preschool, elementary, middle, and high school. We flew to California, but he was the one who drove us from Oakland to Palo Alto. It just won't be the same without riding in his car first, going through the doors knowing he's watching as I enter.

Who am I kidding? It'll never be the same again. Whether he's there or not, you won't be. I don't know why I'm still chasing some long-gone sense of normalcy, because obviously I should've accepted by now that things are going to be different. Dad won't escort me to the door. You won't be there to kiss my forehead and wish me luck. I remember hating it when you guys did that for middle and high school—embarrassing me in front of all of my friends. And you replied back, "Well, that's what parents do."

I know it's wrong of me, but thinking about that now just makes me wonder if he's my parent anymore. We never speak. He spends more time with pictures of us than he does with the real me. I guess I should just give him some time. But I need him.

Like I need you.

I love you.

I miss you.

Love,

Kate


	6. January 25, 1999

January 25, 1999

Dear Mom,

I used to come home from school in elementary school and tell you all about my day. I'll give that a try here.

When I got there, everyone was talking and laughing. The place is huge. I'm not sure how long it'll be before I can find my way around. Compared to Stanford with its 3500 students, this place is…gigantic. I know it said 30,000 students on the website, but I didn't know what that would really look like in person.

I got lost straight off and ended up at a dining hall instead of my psych class. Not quite sure how that happened, but I was forced to ask one of the nearby students for directions. I was hoping to spot someone I knew from Stuyvesant—Claire and John I know went to NYU at least—but I couldn't find them amid all those people. So instead I walked up to this friendly African-American girl and asked her. She introduced herself as Delaney Parish, but immediately told me to call her Lanie, as she hated her stiff full name. She made me laugh, Mom. So I might've made my first friend here. She invited me to a party this weekend. I don't know if I'm going to go yet, but still.

I know that probably doesn't sound like me. In high school and at Stanford I would've been one of the first ones there at any party. But I just don't feel comfortable with the idea, I guess, anymore. I wonder what you would say about that now. I know you and Dad were always uncomfortable with my wild-child attitude, but you also advocated having a strong group of friends to rely on. I wish I could ask you now which piece of advice I'm supposed to follow.

I took a cab back home, and when I knocked on the door no one answered. I had to let myself in with my own key, and I found Dad sitting on the couch right where I had left him this morning. Mom, I don't think he had moved an inch. I know it must be hard for him, but can't he see it's hard for me too? I haven't asked when he'll be returning to the firm, or how much time off they'll give him. He probably has plenty of time—they all loved you there—but I'm still worried that he hasn't even looked into it.

I know what you would say to me right now. I can hear your voice so clearly in my head it's almost like you're standing in front of me, scolding me with your hands on your hips. You would tell me that even adults aren't perfect, and then normally I would snap back that I am one now, so I would know. But not right now. I wouldn't—I can't—even conceive of snapping at you. I would probably envelop you in a huge hug, no matter what was coming out of your mouth.

Anyways, I know you would tell me not to be so hard on him. I just worry, Mom.

Love,  
Kate


	7. January 27, 1999

January 27, 1999

Dear Mom,

I went to the precinct today. I didn't tell Dad, just found Detective Raglan's number on the fridge and called him, but not before tearing it down. It doesn't belong there, next to the grocery list and pictures of family. Those things are everyday, and this is not. It never will be "just part of daily life." I refuse to let it become normal to not have you around. I put it on the cork board instead, with all the other numbers. Now it's in between our grouchy old neighbor and the cockroach exterminator. I think it fits there.

Anyways, Detective Raglan said I should come down to the precinct around five o'clock, so I did. I wasn't sure what to expect when I walked in, never having been in a police station before, but it was surprisingly tranquil. It wasn't like there were criminals in handcuffs everywhere or anything, just a lot of people sitting at desks doing paperwork.

He didn't spot me at first, but I recognized him immediately. As the harbinger of terrible news, I am certain I will never be able to erase his face from my memory. He took me down the hallway and into some sort of lounge and told me to take a seat. He explained that they had found your body in Washington Heights with a stab wound in your abdomen. Their medical examiner had declared it cause of death. No one had seen or heard anything, and even Dad didn't know what you were doing up there. Then he said that they had shelved your case. At first I thought he meant they had found your killer, but he gently told me that it had been random gang violence.

Random gang violence. Random. That's what this all comes down to? As I was writing these letters, I was waiting for the one where I could tell you they had caught the guy, the one where I could assure he was rotting in jail for twenty years to life for his crime. Preferably life.

I told him he couldn't shelve it, and that he hadn't even looked at the court files Dad offered to give him in case it was related, and that even if it had to do with a gang he still hadn't arrested anyone, but he just looked at me with steely eyes and said it was probably best if I go now.

How can they do that, Mom? How can they just file away a case like that under gang violence with no evidence to back it up? Some people have said the criminal justice system is unfair or dysfunctional, but I never believed that could be true because good people like you worked in it. Now...I don't even know anymore. But I promise, I'll never stop looking, asking questions, trying to find answers. It's the least you deserve.

You deserved to live, Mom. You deserved to live. And I refuse to give up on finding the person that took that away from you. From us.

Love,

Kate


	8. January 31, 1999

January 31, 1999

Dear Mom,

You were always about protecting the innocent and guiltless, the wrongly accused. Would you be disappointed in me if I joined the other side? After all that's happened, damning people (excuse my language) sounds like a more suitable option. I want to be part of the team doling out justice, not doing the checks that keep the wrongly accused out of prison. You always said they're equally important, but right now the last thing I want to do is try to argue some criminal out of charges he may have committed in the first place. I won't be responsible for letting a murderer or a rapist back on the streets and ruining someone else's chances at closure. I won't.

As you can see, I haven't really let go of the whole "we're shelving the investigation" thing yet, and I don't think I will anytime soon. It just makes me so angry, Mom, that they could treat you like a statistic instead of a person. Don't they understand what it's like for Dad and me? No, of course they don't. I know it's very wrong of me, but I almost wish Detective Raglan lost someone close to him so he could know what this feels like. Then he wouldn't be so quick to dismiss you as a lost cause.

School's going fine, nothing special to report really. I've been eating lunch with Lanie some days, although I'm not too keen on her posse of friends. They're too rambunctious, too...happy? No, that's not the right word; I don't begrudge them their happiness. Too carefree? Maybe that's it. It occurred to me, though—was that what I was like in high school? The reason I ask is that I can see my old friends in them. They are my kind of people. Or they were, anyway.

Lanie's different, though. She gets it, as much as any of them can. There's something deeper with her, something I don't see with the other girls. She's gentle with me—not kid gloves, you know how I hate those—but she makes sure I'm okay. Some days she tries to integrate me, at least a little bit, into the conversation, but she also seems to know when I need some alone time. She does pry a little though—I guess it's her nature—but only when we're alone. I haven't told her much, but enough for her to get the picture. She stops by every so often in the evening when I return to the university library, and on most days she calls before I go to bed. I'm not much of a talker over the phone—you'd never have trouble with me hogging the landline now, Mom—but just a few sparse words can help stave off the grief for a few minutes. Just long enough for me to fall asleep.

During the night is a whole different matter. I never used to have nightmares as a kid but now I dream a lot. I dream of you. And they're all nightmares because you always disappear in the morning, and I lose even the memory of our time together throughout the day. I know it's just the dreams I'm losing, but I'm terrified of forgetting the sound of your laugh or your favorite words or the fierce pride in your eyes when you smiled at me that I strove to earn again and again in grade school. If I forget all those things, then I'm no better than Raglan. Then you're just a title, nothing more. Mother of Katie Beckett. I don't want to lose what made you a person and what made you such a great Mom.

Dad, on the other hand, seems have the opposite problem. I'm not saying he's trying to drink the memories of you away, Mom, but I swear that's what it looks like. I hadn't known he'd been out of the house for days, but when I opened the trunk of his car yesterday it was filled with unopened six packs. Then, today, by the time I got home from classes, it had all been moved into the fridge and there was a new one sitting on the table in front of me. He tried to hide it when I walked in, but it just splashed on the carpet. I'm scared for him, even if I only see one of those on the table a day. I don't even want to look through the recycling; I won't open the fridge to see how many are left. Once I see it I can never go back.

I checked the wine cabinet, though, Mom. That bottle of cheap Sauvignon was gone, but your favorite, the kind you introduced to him on the night of your engagement, is still there. I don't know what that means. Is it sentimental for him, so that he can't bear to open it without you? Or is he blocking out all vestiges of your presence to try to lessen the pain?

Your wedding photo's missing from the mantle.

I wish you were here so that you could decipher his actions for me. No, I wish you were here so that you wouldn't have to. So that we could all be happy, together.

Love,

Kate


	9. February 3, 1999

February 3, 1999

Dear Mom,

I ran out of class today. It was one of my pre-law classes, and it was our first day talking about techniques the defense use. Today's topic was influencing the jury, and my hands are still shaking as I write this.

You always used to say, "When you don't have enough for reasonable doubt, make it reasonable guilt on the jury's part," and you and Dad would just share a look and laugh. I remember crawling up on your lap and you complaining I was too big for that when I was eleven and asking you what that meant. You told me that if I ever became a lawyer, I should always remember that the jury's made of everyday people snatched up out of their everyday lives. You said I should trust in the inherent goodness of people, and explain exactly what it would mean for the man on trial to be put in jail: the strain on his family, the years of his life he would lose, the irreplaceable life moments he would never get to see... You said as long as there was a tiny needle of doubt in that jury's minds, once they were made aware of all the implications of their decisions, they would think twice about convicting a man who was possibly innocent. I asked you if that had ever worked before, and you replied, "Once or twice."

My little eleven-year-old self with naïve knowledge of the real world looked up at you and promised that I would become a big, famous defense lawyer and popularize the technique, the "Johanna Beckett jury-guilting technique," and you laughed for a long time and then said it wouldn't work as well if everyone knew about it. Do you remember this? You probably thought I wasn't serious back then about becoming a defense attorney, but I was.

That's what he talked about today. He mentioned it, just in passing, about appealing to the jury's kinder human nature, but your words came back to me and I had to run out of that lecture hall in tears.

Lanie saw me on the bench in the lawn and sat down next to me. She missed her pre-med class just to put her arm around me for an hour and a half, and she didn't even know why I was so upset. What did I do to deserve a friend like that? I know I'm not very good company in this state, so I don't know what she sees in me. I really hope it's not pity, because pity only lasts so long. All my old friends from Stanford are long since gone, fallen out of contact with. I need a new best friend, and I really would like her to be Lanie.

I can't do it anymore, Mom. I can't pursue a career as a lawyer, not right now, not after everything I've gone through. I can't study when I see your face in every picture and hear your voice speak every word in my textbooks. It's not working, and I can't handle it. Maybe if I knew some attorney out there somewhere was prosecuting your case, putting away the guy who killed you, maybe then it would be different, but that's not how it is right now. Because Raglan and the rest of them at the 42nd precinct can't do their jobs.

So I've decided, and nothing anyone can say will talk me out of it. When I finally recovered enough to choke out to Lanie what had happened, she supported me wholeheartedly because she could see that's what I wanted, no, _needed_, to do. I'm not going to law school. I'm changing my major as of tomorrow to criminal justice, and after I finish school I'm going to do my six month stint at the Academy. I'm going to become a cop, and I'm going to solve your murder.

Love,

Kate


	10. February 5, 1999

February 5, 1999

Dear Mom,

Dad and I had our first shouting match today. I say first because I'm sure it won't be our last, the way things are looking now. I told him I was changing to criminology and he accused me of not being able to let you go, that your murder was the only reason I am going to become a cop and that I'm making rash decisions based on "extenuating circumstances." Apparently you're a circumstance now, Mom. He told me I needed to start letting you go instead of fixating, and I yelled at him right back that he was a fine example, not having worked in weeks and drinking packs of beer out of the fridge. I told him you would have trusted me to make the right decision and slammed the door.

I haven't been back since. I spent the night in Lanie's dorm, although we didn't get much sleeping done. I don't know how she puts up with my instability, but I am so glad I have her to lean on.

He screamed at me, Mom. And I screamed right back at him. We always knew I'd inherited his stubbornness and your tenacity, but the combination reared its ugly head yesterday and I don't know what to think. I know he didn't mean to belittle your death. That's not what this is even about. It's just...he and I have always seen pretty eye-to-eye on everything except boyfriends and parties, and I used to value his opinion more than anything. I still do. Maybe. I think.

I'm not making a mistake, right? I know I'm headstrong, that I like diving into things without realizing the full complications. I also know that I'm persistent enough to push through any sticky messes I get myself into. But this is the rest of my life, and there's no safety net now. Not that I ever used one before, but just knowing it's gone puts a sharp edge on things. But I also know myself, and I don't think this is a snap decision. Being a cop is dangerous, but it's also rewarding. It's knowing that at the end of the day, you're making a difference. You're protecting people, maybe even saving their lives. The schedule might be erratic, but Dad and I are the only ones left to plan get-togethers and I don't see any of those happening in the near future.

I could be a really good cop, Mom. I want to do this. For us.

Love,

Kate


	11. February 12, 1999

**A/N: Bit of a downer, but I think it speaks to the intense pain Kate's going through at this point.**

* * *

February 12, 1999

Dear Mom,

There are glass shards in the carpet, and every photo of you that hadn't already been hidden has been smashed. It wasn't me. And I don't want to talk about it.

College's going fine. My friends are fine. Everything is fine. The fact that I have to repeat this in my head like a mantra is fine too.

Classes are fine.

Even the ones that remind me of you.

College life is fine.

Even though I don't participate in it much.

Home is fine.

Dad is fine.

Life is fine.

I am fine.

How I wish anything in the last ten sentences was true.

This is, though: I would give anything to have you back. Including my life.

Kate


	12. February 14, 1999

February 14, 1999

Dear Mom,

It's four fifteen in the morning here. I've been sneaking around the house for the last hour, hiding your stuff from Dad. He has boxes of it in every closet, but I'm afraid what used to be on the mantle that is now in a box will find its way to the garbage. And I can't let him throw away these little pieces of you, Mom. Seeing them is like a knife in my stomach, but I have to save them. I can't lose any more of you than I've already lost - your touch, your scent, the sound of your voice, your love. I know they're just inanimate objects, but I feel like they have power, like they show that you were once grounded in this world, that you once belonged, that you once even existed. I can't stand the thought of you fading away.

Soon I'll have to make the trip up to the cabin—much easier now that I'm back to living in New York—but school's in full swing right now and I can't slip away for the day or two I'll need. Plus Lanie would never let me go alone that long. She sees how miserable I am, and I think she thinks I'll try to drown myself in the lake or something. Or she might try to come with me, which would be worse. I'm enough of a mess on a campus where you've never stepped foot; I don't need to show her what actively grieving daughter looks like. It's not pretty.

Tomorrow I'm going to go through your book collection. Today I focused on love-related items: your wedding ring, the invitation, the photo, the notes you and Dad used to slip under each other's doors when you were dating. I'm sure there was more, but I can't think of them right now—again, it's four in the morning. I probably should tell you where I hid everything, though, so I'll have it written down in case I forget. The invitation is in the front jacket of _War and Peace_, the photo is behind the new one of Lanie and me, and the notes are stuffed in my European history class notebook. The ring I buried in my jewelry box; even if he opens it he'll never find it in there. He'd have to dump it out and it would take a while.

It was weird touching it again. It was as beautiful as ever, but cold. Not just physically.

So now it's like you and Dad never had a relationship in this place. On to your favorite books tomorrow.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Love,

Kate


	13. February 15, 1999

February 15, 1999

Dear Mom,

Dad's promised he's not going to throw any of your stuff out, so maybe my hoarding yesterday was unnecessary. I still don't quite trust him enough to unpack it all, but I'm leaving your books on the shelf for now.

I came across one book in particular that caught my eye, and it was on that half of the shelf I never used to go to because you and Dad and me didn't share quite the same taste in stories. It was that Derrick Storm book, one of the most recent ones that you and Dad used to discuss at the dinner table while I was bored out of my mind. You know, the ones by that ridiculously hot author Richard Castle. No, Mom, I don't have a crush on him. I read the paper, I read page six-never in a million years, I promise. Besides, I'd never have a chance with him anyway. But that's not the point.

The new Derrick Storm one caught my eye, and so I opened it up and started reading. I couldn't stop; it was so good. I know you and Dad used to put sticky notes in books at the point where you figured out who the killer was or a certain aspect of the mystery so it became a record of your competition with each other. I can totally tell I'm new at this, because if I were to put a note in for myself it'd be on the second to last page. Yours is in the middle.

It took me a total of seven hours to finish it, and it was a nice escape from reality. It says in the back that the sequel will come out sometime this year, and I'm hoping soon. I want to devour another one of these as soon as possible, but for now I'll settle for one of Richard Castle's (does his name sound like "rich asshole" to you too or is it just me?) earlier works. Chronologically, I guess I'll start with In A Hail of Bullets. Perhaps Dad and I can discuss them at the dinner table like you two did. That's my biggest hope right now.

Anyways, Mom - I was wrong. You do have a great taste in books.

Love,

Kate


	14. March 3, 1999

March 3, 1999

Dear Mom,

Do promises break and cease to exist when people die? Is their existence dependent on that of the promisees? Regardless, I think I broke one today.

I'm writing to you from St. John's hospital. Don't freak out: I'm okay, just a little battered.

I've taken to riding my motorbike a lot more, and I'd started to like the kinds of things Dad warned me of when I first purchased it. Speed. Sharp turns. What you would call reckless driving.

I could have died today, Mom, and I'm not sure if I'm wholly not upset with this outcome, remaining in this world. I swear I wasn't trying to kill myself, but I wanted to feel something. Feel something other than the sadness that permeates everything I do, everything that reminds me of you. The thrill gave me a peace that, for a few seconds, masked that void in my heart. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I promised I'd be careful, and I wasn't. I'm so sorry.

My eyes are starting to close involuntarily for the pain meds they've given me, but there are a few more things I want to tell you. If you see random streaks of ink across the page, you'll know why.

The cops that came to talk to me told me I only survived because when I was thrown into a full dumpster, and if the garbage truck had come a few minutes early I would have been dead. I've got a badly bruised shoulder and arm, but no breaks. They're keeping me here to watch for signs of a concussion, which I think I might have given the way my head is pounding.

The first thing they did after the paramedics brought me in was call Dad. That was fourteen hours ago. He still hasn't shown up.

I hate feeling like I lost two parents in that stabbing.

Love,

Kate


	15. March 4, 1999

**Posting of this story will be moved to Wednesday nights, as the Castle premiere is coming up (can't wait!) and my homework load won't allow me to both post and watch it live. So, Wednesday nights it is! Sorry for the delay. Hope you enjoy!**

March 4, 1999

Dear Mom,

Dad did finally show up last night a little after midnight. Stone cold drunk. They almost wouldn't release me to him until I pointed out that I'm nineteen and legally an adult. Then I found out he drove here, and when he was driving us back home I honestly thought I was going to be in two crashes in twenty-four hours. I could driven better with my pain meds.

I know I didn't have to go to classes today, but I certainly didn't want to stick around the house and wait for Dad to wake up. My arm's in a sling, and the first thing Lanie said to me was, "What the hell happened to you, girl?" I told her everything, including the part about Dad's drunkenness. I know you two used to say there are some things that should remain privately family matters, but in this situation I don't think it applies anymore. Lanie acts more like family should than Dad does, and after class we went back to her dorm and discussed her family for a change. Her dad died when she was ten, and she's been estranged with her mother since around seventeen. We both are pretty alone in the world, but she's obviously dealing with it better than I am. Maybe it's because it's new and fresh for me, or maybe she's already been through the ringer when her dad passed away and this is just a repetition. Whatever the reason, I'm glad I found her. She's one in a million, Mom, and she shows me so much how to be strong and take it one day at a time and that I can't drop out of life. Plus since she's pre-med she's not squeamish about helping me change the bandages on my upper right arm-really hard to do with my left in a sling.

In other news, the paperwork's gone through for my switching of majors; I still have three-fourths of my pre-law classes under my belt, but luckily that gets me out of about a year of criminal justice and I can still graduate on time if I pick up a few extra credits. I had my first classes for my new major today, and Lanie's really taking an interest-she even says maybe in med school she'll focus on becoming a medical examiner instead of a pediatrician. Kids are a hassle to deal with anyway. Wouldn't it be funny if someday we ended up working together, me a cop and her an ME? Not likely to happen, but anything's possible.

Love,

Kate


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